


Meet You On The Other Side

by ThisThatAndTheOther



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ghost Will, Ghosts, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:43:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisThatAndTheOther/pseuds/ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will died before he met Hannibal, but these two wouldn't let a thing like death get in the way.</p><p>**</p><p>"The first few times were an accident. </p><p>Okay, maybe make that the first several times. </p><p>While the exact tally kept in Will’s head wasn’t significant, what mattered was, had he known it meant that he was inviting ghost hunting lunatics to forever barrage his home, he would’ve tried his damnedest to never, <i>ever</i> accidentally haunt his house."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first few times were an accident.

Okay, maybe make that the first several times.

While the exact tally kept in Will’s head wasn’t significant, what mattered was, had he known it meant that he was inviting ghost hunting lunatics to forever barrage his home, he would’ve tried his damnedest to never,  _ever_  accidentally haunt his house.

Now it was do or die. He had unknowingly set a precedence. Once a house was rumoured to be haunted, it got a lot of unwanted attention. And Will had never been one to play nice.

He sat on the couch in the living room, absentmindedly patting Winston’s head as he watched two men and a woman slowly make their way through the spaces of his home. Well, former home. At this point, Will wasn’t quite sure who owned the house. Considering the fact that he was dead, the only certainty he had was – in the eyes of the state of Virginia, America, and the whole known world – he was no longer the legal owner. It saved big on taxes, but it had nothing on, well, being alive – even while paying taxes.

Kitted out in matching black  _Ghost Quest_  t-shirts, the three strangers claiming to be investigators stopped in the part of the living room where he once kept his bed. At the time of his death, most of the stuff that he owned went to charity, along with most of his estate, while all the dogs, save for Winston, went to the shelter. Since then, the house had changed several hands, and each time new furniture would be moved in and out. Currently, the owners were moving their furniture out.

In each of their hands they held a different piece of technology. Will supposed that he should be able to tell what each one was exactly, considering how often these kinds of people showed up, but he didn’t care enough to know anything beyond one – it was a meter with a name composed of various letters of the alphabet and two – it was absolute nonsense.

Will scoffed as the woman – a short, blonde, and not unattractive woman – scanned the room with a heat-sensing camera. While Will was many things, he assumed like all of the ghosts before him, a living, breathing, heat-producing body he was not. He didn’t know what she expected to capture, but as she focused the lens on the couch where he and Winston shared, he knew she’d never pick up his form that way.

The shorter of her two male companions set down one of his meters on the table across the room from Will. He was of indescribable age. Either he was an older man who looked good for his age or a very young man who had not aged well at all, Will couldn’t tell. What he could see was that his calves were as thick as an elephant’s foot. Okay, maybe Will was being cruel. After setting down the machine, on legs that were thinner than an elephant’s, this man moved to the other side of the room to film it with what looked like a normal digital camera.

The remaining, beanpole of man made a show of turning on his tape recorder.

“William Graham. My name is Isaac. My colleagues here are Emily and Tyler,” he said, speaking each word slowly with unusual gravitas.

“Hello Isaac, Emily, and Tyler,” Will greeted in the portentous silence that followed. Of course, he wasn’t heard by the  _Ghost Questers_. Only Winston listened, and the whiskers of his brows moved as he eyed his owner. Winston whined faintly.

“We hear that you like to play tricks on the owners of the house. Slam doors. Drain batteries. Hide their things—“

“Did you hear that?” Tyler asked, turning to look into the dark kitchen.

Will wondered why they always investigated his house at night. He was here in the day too.

“Hear what?”

“I think I heard a cupboard door open,” he said, walking to peak his head into the other room, “Er, no. No, I didn’t.”

Isaac nodded, “Right. Good, Ty. Debunked. Okay. Will, do you mind if I call you Will? The owners have also seen you standing at the foot of their bed. They claim you’ve locked them out of the house. Even pushed them down the stairs.”

That was ridiculous; he never locked anyone out of the house. And he hadn’t purposefully caused the incident on the staircase, when both he and one of the owners stepped onto the same stair at the same time. Reality then flickered for Will. He couldn’t quite see anything, though he certainly felt nauseous despite not having a stomach to be ill with. When he blinked back to awareness, he found the man clutching at the bannister breathing heavily and calling for his wife.   

“If you’re here with us tonight, can you do any of that for us? To show that you’re here?”

All three of them looked at their various equipment – all of which did nothing. Will sighed, lamenting the fact that people like this kept on living, while he was stuck, here… left to haunt this goddamn house for presumably all eternity. Will found that, in death, injustice had a salty flavour.

“Can you speak with us, say anything?”

Will stared.

“We spoke with your boss, Jack Crawford? He said you saved a lot of people when you worked for the FBI.”

That was unlikely. You could call Jack a lot of things (and Will had), but chances were he wouldn’t talk to three college students with a Vistaprint business card about any of his agents, dead or otherwise. Will got up to stand in front of Isaac, taking a closer look at his tape recorder.

Isaac shivered, “It just got really cold here guys. Like, all down my front. Right here. Can you feel it?”

The others moved in closer, encircling Will. They nodded in excitement, giddy with the change in temperature.  _Proof_. Will grimaced as Emily passed a hand through his chest, feeling just a little bit violated.

“Will? Are you there?”  The others started to chirp his name, choosing to mix it up with a few ‘hello’s and ‘you can talk to us’s.

Will didn’t say anything. There was never much conversation between he and these types, on account of their inability to hear him.

He, on the hand, was getting real tired of hearing _them_.

Without moving from them, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to slip into focused concentration. This was a new practice. An ability found after death, it was born in a moment of pure desperation when the first ghost hunters invaded his space. Just like that first time, he drew all of his attention to his core, pushing and shoving and forging a great pressure within himself. It was the only time he ever felt some semblance of warmth, as he drew in the electricity of the room and into his being. It was like a caging a raging storm in his chest, full of crackling lightning and rumbling thunder. It was like trying to latch onto a tornado and shove it in a briefcase. He felt raw and volatile and like he might just split in two from the power of it.

Behind him, the machine on the table lit up.

“Woah! The EMF’s off the rails, guys!” Emily said.

Will looked at Winston and touched the tape recorder with a single, bony finger, “Tsst.”

He let go of the reigns and released the mounting pressure inside. The flood of sensations and the overwhelming relief of surrender to the tempest scoured his being with a heat unlike any other and shortened out his vision. The last thing he saw was the dawning look of terror on three faces. The last thing he heard was the beginning of Winston’s fiercest growl.

Then silence and darkness.

# #

“Fuck! Fuck, what the fuck,” Emily screamed as they ran from the house. Sounds of rustling fabric and clunking plastic followed them across the front yard.

Isaac, with his long legs, reached their SUV first and jacked the handle, “Open the door, Ty. Open the door!”

Tyler stumbled while attempting to pull his key fob out of his khaki’s pocket.

“TY!”

“I’m tr- fuck. I’m trying!”

The fob beeped. Isaac flung himself into the passenger seat, quickly followed by Emily who leapt into the backseat. Finally, Tyler jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind him. They stared at each other wide-eyed and panting, until finally Isaac started to laugh.

“That was… Oh my god. Check the cameras. Check the cameras!”

Emily and Tyler fumbled with their cameras as Tyler rewound his recorder – each of them excited to finally,  _finally_ , after three long years of long nights, bad coffee, and absolutely no proof of the great beyond, finally they have one of the most epic pieces of evidence for a haunting – no, a poltergeist – ever.

The rush was dewy and made clumsy their fingers. They laughed as adrenaline coursed through their veins.

Emily was the first to frown. Isaac a close second, and Tyler’s manic grin froze in an awkward grimace.

“Wh-what?”

All of their equipment was wiped clean.

# #

When Will came to, he was lying in the middle of the living room with Winston curled behind his knees. It lacked the heat and weight of when he would wake to find Winston sleeping with him in life, but the sensation carried the same comforting familiarity of a time before their deaths. Winston huffed and shifted closer, and Will knew it was a sentiment shared with his friend.

His nerves were a sensitive thing, enflamed and angry. He might not want to do that again. For a long time.

He didn’t know how much time had passed exactly, but judging by the professional movers carrying a heavy mahogany cabinet up the stairs, he figured enough time had passed for the sale of the house to go through. In the interim, he knew of nothing, and the blank space in his memory was a disconcerting thing.

Pushing himself to his feet, he followed the sounds of voices into the kitchen on legs that were more fitting to a stumbling, newborn fawn.

“Alana!”

She didn’t move from where she leaned against the counter, where she was speaking to another person the room. Her companion was a striking man in an equally striking, yet overly formal, suit. Will eyed the pattern for a moment and realised that both plaid and paisley were in abundance. He raised an eyebrow before turning his attention back to Alana. He was filled with such a sudden sense of longing he nearly swayed from the strength of it. It had been so long since he’d seen anyone important.

He stepped close to her and watched how the sun made her dark hair nearly auburn, the way the summer had brought out her freckles, the way a few lines that hadn’t been there before crinkled at her eyes. He clung to these details, documenting each and every change.

Her voice, though unchanged, surprised him the most.

“I still find it strange – no, very strange that I’m even in this kitchen.”

Her companion tilted his head, “You knew Will well?”

“Not very. I don’t think any of us really knew Will. And I didn’t want to try to know him at the time because…”

Will watched as Alana took a deep breath, gaze roving from lips to eyes. Finally, he wished that he could make contact – that she would just _see._

The other man nodded. Will barely bared attention as he filled in the silence she gave, “By learning about Will you’d find yourself trying to diagnose and treat. It’s the curse of the psychiatrist.”

Alana pursed her lips to concede his point. Will hovered a finger over them, careful not to touch.

“I only ever came here once.”

“And?”

She laughed, “There were a lot of dogs.”

Will found himself smiling along with her, as he wiped a tear from his cheek. Winston bumped his leg as he catalogued the changes that occurred over the weeks, months, years since he last saw Alana.

“Just promise me one thing, Hannibal. Don’t let any of those ghost shows in here. Will would’ve hated it.”

The man smiled gently and tipped his head, “Alana, you know me better than that.”

Will let go of the tension that had gathered while the man – Hannibal – chose to respond. Finally. A normal human being that Will could share his house with.

# #

Perhaps Will had been hasty. Any man who spent that much time fussing about inconsequential interior design details wasn’t normal. But he was true to his word. No ghost investigator, medium, or curious neighbour were humoured. Hannibal didn’t even so much as mention the words “ghost” or “haunted” to any of the various technicians, contractors, and designers he had in his home. Even when they were the ones to bring it up. When they did, a strange light in Hannibal’s eyes flickered and he shut down that topic of conversation with efficiency and grace.

He was so polite, Will sort of hated him.

But overall, he wasn’t his worst roommate. Will’s only complaint was the major renovations Hannibal made to his kitchen. Not because he couldn’t agree that the finish product was beautiful, but because it took so long to meet Hannibal’s absurdly high expectations. There seemed to be construction going on all the time. Frankly, Will lost track of it all, choosing to wander the fields with Winston while the contractors moved from the now theatre-like kitchen for the basement.

# #

Once the renovations were complete, Will was as happy as he ostensibly could be. Hannibal led a very busy life, and most of his time was spent outside of the home. When he was in the house, he was a near imperceptible presence – as ghostly as Will himself.

Will learnt that his houseguest was quite the gourmand, as he spent a ridiculous amount of time cooking. The meals he prepared for his dinner-for-ones astounded Will, who remembered all too often microwaving a boxed pizza and calling it a night. At most he’d over boil some green beans to go with a box of macaroni and cheese that was a side for the fish he caught himself.

He was also quite the musician. When he wasn’t playing the harpsichord and some strange instrument Will had never seen in his life, he was listening to classical records. Actual vinyl records. Will found that compared to the sounds of TVs and movies that had filled his house when previous owners had their reign, he could get used to classical music.

# #

Will didn’t sleep. Didn’t have to, after all, as there was no biological body that required the restorative processes of sleep. But he could drift in that liminal space between wakefulness and slumber – that hazy sense of floating that he used to feel before falling into a well-deserved nap. When he did, he always found himself standing in the middle of the stream behind his house. The water was always cool against his waders, but their currents were never strong enough to push him over. Winston would watch from the shores as he fished. He let himself fall into these fogs for long periods of a time, when watching Hannibal and walking his property with Winston became too much of a bore.

It was from this trance that Will was startled. The loud thump-thump-thump of something heavy being dragged downstairs awoke him. Beside him, Winston whined.

Did he miss a break in? Was his favourite houseguest being murdered in his own goddamn home? He shot up from the couch and rushed for the basement door. Maybe he’d be able to push Hannibal’s attacker down the stairs. Or, he thought, he could try a hand a levitating an object. Preferably something heavy.

Or at least, he did, until he saw what was making that sound. It was Hannibal dragging a man down the stairs. What looked to be a dead man, limp and ashy. Hannibal, in a clear suit of plastic over his usual suit of plaid, looked for all the world as though he were dragging a bag of potatoes down to the cellar. Not even a hair out of place.

Dimly, he heard Winston growl behind him.

Will followed them down and immediately wished he hadn’t. The basement had had its own makeover that transformed it from the country cellar he knew and loved to a murder dungeon he was unsurprised to find her hated. How did Will not notice it? What contractor would build it?

Creepy strips of plastic hung from the rafters, and there were various tables with different machines on them. As with other parts of his house, Hannibal had thought of everything. Not just a room with some sharp tools, the basement was a stylised workshop with obvious stations for each step in his murder process. Will was taken on an unwelcomed journey through homicide, as he watched Hannibal use each station with morbid fascination. First the gurney where he stripped the man of his clothes and drained and collected his blood. Then the chopping block where he disarticulated the limbs from their joints. Then the saw table to cut the separated limbs into smaller pieces. Then finally the block where Hannibal focused on the torso, removing the kidneys, liver, and lungs. There was even a table where all of his choice cuts and collected tissues were piled.

Will couldn’t believe it. He was going to eat them. He didn't-quite-live with a goddamn cannibal.  _Hannibal_  the cannibal.

He had been so wrong about Hannibal, and though they had never spoken, Will felt betrayed.

With a hardening stare, Will made a vow. He was going to haunt the fuck out of this motherfucker.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Before Will could watch how Hannibal meant to transport his ill-gotten gains from the basement to his kitchen, he fled up the stairs with Winston brushing at his legs every step of the way. He took every step in the house until he found himself in the attic.

He scoffed. Even here the touch of Hannibal’s OCD interior design scheme was obvious. Gone were the normal rafters, open insulation, and boxes of random stuff that normal people had in their normal unfinished attics. In their place were hardwood floors and wainscoting that dripped with wealth that complemented equally as expensive furniture, as if Hannibal had planned to entertain the Queen here too. It had the tell-tale sign of Hannibal’s (now bloodied) fingers all over it, and none of the neglected charm Will had cultivated.

He kicked at the moulding, only to curse when his foot disappeared through the wall as numbness prickled up his leg.

“That—goddamn… cannibal!” Will grabbed at his hair, feeling the phantom pull at the roots. It did nothing to express the white hot hand of rage that twisted his insides.

He groaned and sank to the floor, refusing to sit on the high back chair next to him. He let Winston nuzzle at his head where he rested it against the wood. It was luxurious against his cheek, and Will hated Hannibal even more.

“What’re we gonna do about this, Winston?” Will assumed Winston agreed that their only course of action was to haunt Hannibal into madness. Or into selling the house. Or maybe, if Will was really lucky, Hannibal would just abandon it all together, freeing Will to live in the house without feeling guilt over his murderous roommate. Just him and Winston. It would be almost like old times.

Will sighed. That wouldn’t happen. Someone like Hannibal wouldn’t just up and leave, letting his now valuable piece of real estate go to waste. No, he’d put it up for sale, which meant Will would have to endure another new family and their idiocy. Before he knew it, another set of _Ghost Questers_ would be bothering him again, and he’d have to face their intrusive charlatanism. Only to start the whole thing over again when they found nothing to back up their claims. Then, maybe for a few weeks – or maybe even months if he were lucky – he’d be alone while the house changed hands again.

He should have felt joy at the prospect, but he only sensed something akin to a sinking disappointment.

Oh.

What once was his stomach curdled with realization.

He liked Hannibal. He actually _enjoyed_ his company and the thought of Hannibal disappearing from Wolf Trap was a dark one.

And it wasn’t just because through him he got to see Alana. He’d miss the way he’d fill the empty spaces of the house with soft sounds of cooking, or how he always closed his eyes while listening to the opera. Will would miss seeing the fastidious way he made espresso to go along with his full breakfast every morning, how he aligned all of his belongings at right corners, and how the man sometimes fell asleep reading next to the fire, despite being in a starched collar and three piece suit. Or how, that one time Will accidentally followed him into the bedroom, he got to see all of the sharp planes of muscle Hannibal hid underneath all of those yards of plaid.

He grit his teeth at the memory. He didn’t think it was possible but he was even more furious. Had he still a beating heart, his cheeks would be enflamed with the indignity of it all.

He was mad not because Hannibal had killed a man, but that he had killed a man in _their_ basement – that his actions just jeopardized their entire bid at cohabitation – that even with blood painting his hands red, Hannibal was still the best roommate he’d ever had, pre- and post-death. In fact, wrist-deep in the dead man’s torso, he was the most interesting man Will had ever met. He was mad because he wasn’t mad enough.

This, he knew, didn’t reflect well on himself.

Winston licked at his chin.

“I’m in trouble Winston,” Will said, grabbing at the dog’s fur.

Will opted to stay in the attic for the remainder of the evening.

#  #

Under the bright morning sunshine that leaked through the kitchen window, his emotional revelation was bared in exacting detail. Luckily, he had missed Hannibal, so he didn’t have to muse on his thoughts on the man with him in the room. That would be one humiliation too far.

The doctor was now wherever he usually was during a workday. Probably at some ostentatious office filled with ridiculously expensive furniture.

But the harsh realities of day didn’t mean that his feelings were any less complicated – or more easily understood. It just revealed the magnitude of emotion he had for the man. It was like a long chain of knots. Just as he loosened one, he revealed three more in its place. Curiosity, fondness, and a not-too welcomed lust.

As he was examining that particular loop, he was again led back to the primary feeling of rage.

He growled and braced himself against the door of one of the ovens. It turned on to broil in response.

He looked up at the temperature display and grinned. If there was a slight manic tilt to his lips, no one but Winston saw.

#  #

Hannibal never entered the kitchen right away. Even after a long day at work, he always took the time to wash his hands in the bathroom before sipping at a glass of wine while reading from his tablet. Will knew this. He also knew that the wine probably cost a disgusting amount, and that Hannibal would be checking that shit website, TattleCrime.com.

Most nights, Will didn’t mind the doctor’s ritual. He took the opportunity to doze (as much as he could) with Winston by the fire. But not tonight. Tonight he was too keyed up by the anxiety of anticipation.

While usually he sat bemused as Hannibal sniffed, closed-eyed at his wine with his thumb hovering over the touchscreen, Will chose to lay in wait in what he realized amounted to lurking in the kitchen – alone and in the dark.

He didn’t have to wait for long before Hannibal joined him. The doctor moved swiftly through the familiar space, picking up the cloth apron and wrapping it tightly around his waist. Still knotting the ties, he moved before the fridge. Hannibal pulled out one vacuum-sealed piece of meat from the shelf and placed it on the counter. He then pre-heated the oven.

325°F flashed in a bright, digital red before the display read 0°F. Confident that his equipment was in working order, Hannibal didn’t watch this as Will did, nor did he see how the display began to climb its way to the temperature he wanted. Instead, he turned around to select a cast iron skillet from his collection of pots and pans.

While his back was turned, Will touched the display, focusing his energy only slightly. The number then blinked 500°F before resuming its ascent through degrees. By the time Hannibal returned to the oven, it was only at 180°F.

In death, Will had an affinity for electronics. It wasn’t like the skill he had with motors, as that particular aptitude was hard earned. Whereas it took the better part of his childhood and teen years before Will could get his head around major mechanical systems, it took all but a day to realize he could play around with anything that had a plug or a battery. And while it would take him hours of physical labour to repair an engine, all it took for him to make an appliance sing was a simple touch.

He was glad he had no one to explain it to because he couldn’t even if he tried. It was one of the few upsides of being dead (and having no one to talk to), he supposed, the other being his ability to interfere with Hannibal’s precious equipment.

Next on his list was the element that Hannibal chose to place his skillet on top of. It was set to 8, but Will thought it would be better if it were only at 2. Without moving the dial, Will made the appropriate changes, ensuring each of the elements could not rise above 2 no matter what it was set to.

Now that he was on a roll, he thought the fridge could do with a slight change, too. Perhaps the fruits, vegetables, and _human flesh_ would be better suited by a temperature of 65 degrees.

Moving his attention back to Hannibal, he saw that oil was already in the pan. The man in question was dredging the meat in a mixture of what Will could only describe as flour and herbs – nothing more specific. Not that it mattered. Will couldn’t eat it. _Wouldn’t_ eat it, he reminded himself, even if he could because it was human. And soon, neither would Hannibal.

When Hannibal stopped and placed a hand over the pan, the right corner of Will’s mouth curled up. When Hannibal tilted his head in confusion at the lack of heat, the centre of his lips pushed up against his teeth. When Hannibal frowned and fiddled with the dial of the element, the left side of Will’s mouth joined the other, completing what he knew was a deranged sneer of self-satisfaction.

It continued to twist his face as Hannibal tried out the remaining elements, only to realize they refused to go as high he needed to sear his cut of meat. But it fell quickly when he realized, despite the slight furrow of his brows, Hannibal wasn’t too fazed by it all. In fact, he barely seemed irritated as he placed the skillet in the oven.

In retaliation, Will turned on the blender.

The sound of the whirring blades cut through the silence. Winston barked once, but Will was robbed of seeing Hannibal jump at the disturbance, as the man only startled into stillness at the sound. Probably instincts bred from years of killing people, Will thought.

The doctor stared at the blender for a moment from the corner of his eye while he straightened his back from the very base of his spine to the top of his head. At the slow, nearly liquid movement, Will had a dawning of realisation. He was in the room with a predator. Will watched as Hannibal flared his nostrils, as if he were scenting the air like Winston. What else did he share with Winston? If he pulled back his lips would he have sharp canines too?

“Getting scared, Doctor Lecter?” Will taunted, despite now feeling wary of the man – even more than when Hannibal killing a man. He then immediately felt embarrassed about it, cringing at the thought of talking to someone who couldn’t hear him. It was like people who yelled at TV screens.

Of course he didn’t get a response. But whatever Hannibal smelled made him relax, and he quickly moved to turn off the droning machine. The ensuing silence boxed at Will’s ears, making them ring slightly in lack.

Without any elaborate examination of his blender, Hannibal turned to open the oven and placed the prepared meat into the skillet. The oil crackled and sparked as soon as the flesh hit the pan, and Hannibal was quick to shut the door on it.

If he noticed that the fridge was slightly warmer than usual, he didn’t let on as he gathered a basket of mushrooms. In fact, Hannibal barely showed any annoyance, considering Will had delayed his already late dinner by a full 30 minutes. It was damn near impossible to get a rise out of Hannibal – the eternally cool doctor who came into people’s homes and renovated them completely before murdering strangers in their basement so that he could cook up their organs. The very same doctor that tricked his unsuspecting roommate into liking him. Meanwhile, all he had to do was kill a man to completely unravel Will. Lots of people have killed a man. Hell, most of the FBI has. Hannibal wasn't special.

Will turned on the coffee grinder and the steamer.

It wasn’t _fair_.

Setting the microwave for ‘potato’, Will barely let it ding before turning to the second oven and engaged its self-cleaning mode. As the door’s lock clicked shut, Will slammed down the toaster buttons and triggered the upright mixer so that its beaters began to rotate at their highest setting.

By now Hannibal had frozen next to the first oven, watching his kitchen come to life with only a somewhat stunned expression. His lack of eyebrows made it worse, and the lines on his forehead were the only things to betray his shock. Mouth still relaxed and eyes only widened by the pull of his brows. Not the awe Will expected, nor the terror, it wasn’t enough. Will demanded something from the doctor, and he would have his reaction if it killed him… again.

By now, Winston was beside him. It was obvious by his raised heckles that he was the only one disturbed by what was going on in the kitchen.

Will curved his attention inside of himself, directing his mind’s eye into the core of his being. When his chest began to heat and crackle like a false hearth, Winston began to growl. Low and even, it was a warning, as if the dog knew how much this took out of Will the last time. As if he, better than Will, knew how this was such a monumentally _bad_ idea. Oh, but Will knew. He just chose to ignore it. Soon enough, those cautioning rumbles were lost to the whirlwind that was trapped inside of Will. It was all that he could to hold on, as the storm grew riotous within.

Around and around and around the energy circled, crackling with power at every rotation, so fast Will was dizzy with it.

He stumbled on the tile, but forced himself to turn to all of the cupboards and swing them open with one swipe of his hand. They were still ricocheting off the walls and themselves as Will turned to the sink. Two powerful jets of hot water sprayed from the taps with enough force behind them to make a resounding, thunderous noise at the bottom of the basin.

He blinked at the greying world around him. Far off was a shrill beeping that barely made it through the haze. He fell to his knees and collapsed into Winston. The dog, now snarling in earnest, took most of his weight with little complaint. With his cheek resting against the warm, vibrating fur, he watched as Hannibal opened the oven door. A heavy, black cloud of smoke billowed out from the oven.

As Hannibal’s face finally crumpled into a full-fledged frown, Will smiled. Toothy and lopsided.

Then he knew nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys! Some health problems made writing an impossibility but now it's all good. Thanks so much for reading, and giving this li'l, stoopid fic some TLC.


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